<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Watford DC Line, Hatch End to Harlseden, Midnight by Gla22</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772222">Watford DC Line, Hatch End to Harlseden, Midnight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gla22/pseuds/Gla22'>Gla22</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, gothphobia I guess, mostly a mood piece with very little plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:14:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gla22/pseuds/Gla22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard waits for, and then takes, a brief commute.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>TMA Gerry Week 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Watford DC Line, Hatch End to Harlseden, Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was unseasonably cold, even for a February, when Gerard Keay last stood at Hatch End station. The lamps reflected off the old snow still clinging at the edges of stonework, and off ice that hadn’t quite come off the platform proper, and Gerard lifted his half-gloved hands to his face and breathed over his exposed fingertips. He held them there, even after he ran out of breath, and flexed them slowly, the eyes on the last knuckle squinting and widening as he moved as though adjusting to changes in the light. Beneath the eyes, his skin was a color distressingly close to puce. Bad circulation. He’d always had it; he should know better than to stand out here, should have checked the schedule, should have finished his business while the station building was open - but then, that’d hardly been his choice, had it?</p><p>He spent a moment picking at the remains of ashes that had somehow worked their way into his nail beds. Futile, of course; he could try to bite away the ashes but he’d have to be a good deal more desperate to consider possibly ingesting something like that book, in any form. Seemed like a silly line, actually, now he thought of it - holding them, reading them, stealing, tearing, burning - was eating one really so much worse? Of course it was, he scoffed to himself. Had to have a line somewhere, however nonsense. He lowered his unbitten hands in to the pockets of his long coat, clumsy fingers scrabbling briefly at the slits, and leaned forward to look down the track for the telltale glow of an oncoming train. Perhaps, if he saw nothing, he’d light a cigarette. Perhaps the smoke would warm him. Perhaps putting himself in a position where he needed to keep at least one hand out in the open, exposed to frigid air, would only make him colder and in fact the entire idea was flawed. </p><p>Fortunately, he was spared the finer points of this internal discussion by the glow of lights and the rattle of tracks. He drew his coat closer as the train pulled in, resisted the urge to shiver, and tried to be grateful it wasn’t snowing. The stark visual of the flakes against the uniformly dark backdrop of his hair and clothing was impeccable, to be sure, but the moisture they’d leave on him and how it sucked what little warmth he held in his rail of a body much less so. </p><p>The train slid into the station, its interior lights casting out and washing both sides of the platform in a yellow that could be described as honeyed if it weren’t casting across crusts of snow and slicks of ice. Gerard ducked through the doors as soon as they were open, still trying not to shake, and breathed deep that midnight-tube air. Stale, somehow still musky hours after the commuters had departed, and possessing that odd quality of humidity that only really seemed to come out when cold outdoor air collided with the output of an inadequate artificial heater. Still, it was a relief after the unadulterated ache of the platform’s cold. Gerard tried to relax, to un-hunch his shoulders and unlock his limbs, and looked up and down the car for any other passengers. </p><p>There were indeed a couple other people in this car - not so many as to be unusual for the hour, but the presence of any at all was notable. Gerard tried to take comfort in the presence of other, normal-seeming citizens, and tried not to be annoyed that he wouldn’t be able to really breathe out until he reached his own little abode. </p><p>At least one of the other people didn’t seem to be taking any notice of him, and beyond the initial glance to see her leaned far back in her seat with her ankles crossed out in front of her and her gaze studiously fixed on her phone, Gerard did her the courtesy of ignoring her in return. The other passenger, however, had a very different reaction to his presence. He sat there, on his single seat, looking over his shoulder at Gerard. </p><p>Gerard met his eyes for a moment before instinctively letting his gaze travel on. He resisted the urge to look back once he realized the other passenger wasn’t turning back to the front of the train and instead chose a seat of his own, facing the opposite direction. He dropped himself on to the small, plastic seat and leaned back a bit, making something of a show of being disinterested - neither aggressive nor threatened. He stretched his legs out in front of him and listened to his knees crack, pulled them back in, folded himself forward, and pulled out his nails for further examination. A few years back, maybe he would have reacted differently - sat facing the man, hackles raised, waiting for he didn’t know what to go wrong. Laughable, really. </p><p>Still, he couldn’t help but feel eyes - two more than usual - on the back of his neck. He watched Headstone Lane station go by. When the feeling didn’t subside, he turned, and saw that the man had switched seats; now he had stationed himself a few rows farther from Gerard and facing him. Well. Could be worse, he supposed. The fact that he’d moved farther away meant that he probably wasn’t some sort of servant looking for an opening, just a creepy guy on the tube at midnight - much more likely, to be honest. Just some guy staring on the tube. Nothing to worry about. Gerard idly wondered at how dedicated his hands were to numbness. </p><p>One of the Wembley stations… Harlesden next. Gerard got up, cursing quietly as his knees popped again, and went to stand by the door. Back into the cold, for a while, at least. </p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>The man in the back of the car. Gerard watched the door. To turn or not. It was late, and cold, and the staring man sounded like a man who’d been gathering his courage the whole trip. Gerard turned, and made contact again with those staring eyes.</p><p>“You’re a freak, you know that?” </p><p>Gerard stared dumbly. It wasn’t that he’d never heard it before, but of all the things that he’d expected today, that wasn’t it. His mind gave him everything he’d ever said as a reply, most of them equally witless, some of them clever, nearly all of them snide. He opened his mouth. The tube slid to a halt. The man in the back of the train yelled, “Your mum let you out dressed like that?”</p><p>The tube door slid open. Gerard closed his mouth, picked at the ashes under his fingernails with his thumb with hands still in his pockets, and stepped out, back into a frigid February night.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>